"My dear," said Mrs. Derrick, "there comes Squire Deacon. Maybe he'll stay to supper. I'll go and put on another cup."
Mr. Linden gave one glance at the opening gate, and followed Mrs.
Derrick into the house.
"Miss Faith," said the Squire, "do you think the night dews conducive to—to your comfort?"
"When they are falling," said Faith abstractedly. "Why not, Mr. Deacon?"
"To be sure!" said the Squire gallantly,—"honeysuckles and such things do. But what I mean is this. Cilly's goin' to get up a great shore party to-morrow, and she says she couldn't touch a mouthful down there if you didn't go. And like enough some other folks couldn't neither."
"Mother's gone in to tea. Will you come in and ask her, Squire?"
"Couldn't stay, Miss Faith—Cilly's lookin' out for me now. But you can tell—your mother'll go if you do,—or you can go if she don't, you and Miss Danforth. It's good for you now, Miss Faith,—the saline breezes are so very—different," said the Squire.
"When are you going, Mr. Deacon?"
"Soon as we can tackle up after dinner, Cilly thought. But fix your own time, Miss Faith—I'll call for you any hour of the twenty-six."
Faith hesitated, and pulled a leaf or two from the honeysuckle; then she spoke boldly.